


Starbucks Is Evil

by chugster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Microchip, Pre-Slash, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:05:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chugster/pseuds/chugster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Lestrade found out about magic. Hermione's really good at making tea and taking people's memories away. Also: Mycroft knows everything and has the power to destroy Starbucks. Pre-slash Mycroft/Lestrade, with Hermione playing the match maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starbucks Is Evil

Lestrade glared at the blinking cursor on the computer screen. The paperwork tended to pile up even with the normal cases but at least with those there was a certain script to follow, his experience to fall back on. He typed in a sentence, deleted it and went back to glaring at the cursor. The report was due by the end of the day and he had yet to come up with a plausible explanation for the missing evidence he’d have to fetch from Bakerstreet, the blatant disregard of police conduct he had to apologise for, let alone the importance of a flock of geese that apparently had solved the whole thing. Lestrade rubbed his neck and tried to see the silver lining. At least they had a confession. The case was solved, even though he wasn’t sure how. No-one had died or been badly injured, Sherlock’s short dip to the Thames aside.

The thought of making Sherlock fill in his own paperwork amused Lestrade for a moment. He hadn’t even given them a statement on the latest one, opting to get to 221B to warm up instead. Lestrade could hardly blame the man but there was a report to write up and it wasn’t going to write itself. Lestrade checked the time and decided to try his luck with calling Sherlock about dragging his lazy arse to the station.

When Sherlock didn’t pick up he dialled John’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Leaving a missed call on John’s mobile was like leaving a note for Sherlock, as John was the one to most likely respond to a missed call and make Sherlock come in and give Lestrade his statement. It was a working system. He called John and Sherlock would end up at the station, and if he was lucky, he’d get the report done by the end of the day.

The cursor blinked away, taunting Lestrade with the unfinished state of the report.

Lestrade wrote _I appreciate the help but you’re a massive prick, Sherlock_ and felt a little vindicated.

Naturally that’s when the door opened and the familiar face of the elder Holmes brother peered in.

“No,” Lestrade said and casually deleted the last sentence of text from the document. Of course Mycroft couldn’t see the screen from where he was standing, but Lestrade wasn’t taking any chances.

“Good afternoon to you too, Gregory,” Mycroft said and offered a small smile as he stepped inside Lestrade’s cramped office space, handing him a slim file. He didn’t seem affected by Lestrade’s form of hello, but then again, Lestrade had hardly expected him to give up that easily.

Denying Mycroft had become much like a reflex for Lestrade as Mycroft had started visiting him more often, asking for his professional opinion or assistance in something or another on a weekly basis. Unfortunately the visits had also left Mycroft with the firm belief that Lestrade was open for distractions from paperwork and had taken it as a personal challenge to talk Lestrade into giving him whatever he was after. Today was no different. Before Lestrade could get a word in edgewise, Mycroft was already busy outlining a case he was involved in and clearly wanted to involve Lestrade as well. Lestrade opened the file Mycroft had handed to him, first glancing at the content but then reading with growing interest.

After a while Lestrade had to admit he was intrigued. The case seemed like it was lifted straight from a sci-fi novel, complete with high-tech gadgets and gory details. The trouble was that Lestrade already had a case he was supposed to be working on and although he was interested, he was not going to take on a new one just because Mycroft Holmes said so. There were principles to follow here and Lestrade thought it healthy to remind the man of the fact every once in a while.

“We deal with homicides here,” he said firmly when there was a pause in the flow of information Mycroft was pouring on him. “With killers and corpses and murder weapons. Not microchips imbedded in some poor bastard’s neck, as fantastical as that sounds. It’s not what we do. Not my division.” Lestrade got up out of his chair and walked around his desk to face Mycroft, who was still hovering near the doorway and was starting to look slightly put out by Lestrade’s lack of cooperation. Lestrade crossed his arms and continued,

“What you should do is talk to Sherlock about this. It’s right up his alley.”

“No, I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Mycroft said. Lestrade was surprised by the straight-out refusal. “Sherlock must be kept clear of this case,” Mycroft repeated. “All I need from you is to take the victim’s statement and sign off the finished paperwork. Quite simple, really. This needs to be handled discreetly and there’s no need to involve anyone else. I’m asking you to do this, Gregory. As a favour, if you like.”

“Simple?” Lestrade reached behind him and grabbed the file Mycroft had placed there earlier. He searched for a moment for the right segment and poked the paper with his finger as he found it. “It says here that the victim had his memories altered for the duration of two years by that chip. _Two years_ worth of new memories, received via an electronic chip? That’s science fiction, that is.”

“Not as far-fetched as you might think, but yes, it does sound quite bizarre. That is his statement, however.” Something in Mycroft’s tone seemed off, and it made him suddenly question the whole thing.

“But that’s not what happened to him, is it?” Lestrade dropped his chin a fraction and frowned, wondering for a moment where he was sticking his head into, or if he even wanted to, this time. “It never is all that simple with you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft seemed to pay no attention to the muttered words, maybe even taking them as a compliment. “But you do want to know what really happened to the man, yes?” Mycroft said, tempting Lestrade with the offer.

Lestrade closed the file and put it back to his desk. He wasn’t about to give in just yet. “I don’t have the time for that, Mycroft, you knw we’re short of staff as it is. All this paperwork doesn’t fill itself, as helpful as that would be. Besides, it would raise all sorts of questions if the case was signed off by a DI from homicide, don’t you think? There must be a division better suited to this than us.” It was a game after all. No need to make it too easy for the man.

Mycroft pressed on, closing the door of his office. Watching him. “That paperwork will be forgotten as soon as you sign it off, Gregory. I have people who specialize in that sort of thing,” he then said with unwavering confidence.

“Of course you have,” Lestrade said and ran his fingers through his hair, thinking of the barber’s appointment he missed last month and never got to reschedule. Next to Mycroft he must have looked positively shabby, but then again, most people would.

Lestrade was slowly getting annoyed with Mycroft telling him one thing but asking another, not really giving him the facts he needed to make the right decision. It was confusing as hell and Lestrade still wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know more, to know it all, or to walk away and tell Mycroft to find someone else. Somehow that seemed the worst alternative of all.

“So what you need is a police officer without actually involving the police force. You don’t need me in particular to sign off paperwork that’s going to disappear before the ink’s dried, but you do need someone, for some reason. The case is about as crazy as they come but you’re all but telling me that the microchips are not even the craziest part of it. And you can’t ask Sherlock about it.” Lestrade looked over at Mycroft, realizing he’d made up his mind long ago. And knowing Mycroft, he’d probably known Lestrade would agree before he had even entered his office or he wouldn’t have come in at all. Damn it. “Why are you really here, Mycroft?”

Mycroft approached the desk, which in the small office meant stepping close enough to Lestrade that he could smell Mycroft’s aftershave. Usually Mycroft wasn’t half as bad as Sherlock when it came to respecting social boundaries and giving people their personal space but clearly he, too, had his moments. He looked pleased and Lestrade had an off feeling they had reached a conclusion of sorts.

Mycroft picked up the report from the desk and handed it back to Lestrade, continuing with the sort of tone people generally use when discussing the weather, the neighbour’s ugly dog, or some other thing for which they have no great passions towards. “I need a member of the police force who can, for the victim’s own well-being, lie to him and confirm that a microchip has indeed been implanted in him, and encourage him to get it taken out as soon as possible. I need someone who’s open-minded. I need someone I can trust not to discuss this case with anyone. To be honest there are not many people who fit that description. There is, in fact, only one.”

Well there was something to break the monotony of the day. Nothing more efficient to pull you out of boredom than one of your friends telling you you’re their “one”.

Then again, knowing Mycroft, this could just as well be another one of his methods to get what he wanted.

And still they were standing far too close to each other, Lestrade hanging on to the file like a shield now.

“Right. Okay, then.” Lestrade went back to his desk and sat down, leaned back and tried to make himself comfortable. Or at least more professional. “Sit down, Mycroft, and start talking. What exactly happened?”

 “We’ll get to that eventually. There’s something else you need to know before we go any further,” Mycroft said, taking the offered chair and crossing his feet unhurriedly. Lestrade had a feeling it would be neither the shortest nor the least complicated of stories he was about to hear, and prepared himself for something incredible. Instead, he got to hear something actually quite familiar. Familiar from the times he’d used to read bed time stories for his girls, that is.

It was a story of witches and wizards, of spells and curses, a story of magic, and Mycroft told it with absolutely no hint of humour, as if this was any other case he was briefing him about. As if he was supposed to take it seriously.

Except that this story was no story at all, but very much real and about to unfold right in front of Lestrade’s eyes, in a few short moments when the two men were to go and see their crime victim for the first time. Mycroft told him there would also be a person –a genuine witch– from the institute of Magical Law Enforcement that he was about to meet.

When Mycroft was finished with the story he got up from the chair and turned to leave, expecting Lestrade to follow. Lestrade went along with him, if only to humour him. After all, the chances of this being anything more than an elaborate joke or an excuse to get him down to the interview rooms were non-existent. Why Mycroft would go through with either of those options wasn’t yet clear to Lestrade, but he was willing to play along.

What was exceedingly clear was that something wasn’t quite right here and there was only one way to find out what exactly it was. And Lestrade had never been one to leave a suspicious thing uninvestigated.

\----

“Why am I not surprised that you know all this stuff about magic?” Lestrade asked as they made their way downstairs towards the interview rooms. “I mean if there were such a thing as a wizarding community, which I’m still not convinced that there is, I’m not exactly surprised that you’d know about them.”

“That’s because you’ve come to the right conclusion about me and the position I hold in the British Government.” Mycroft glanced at Lestrade over his shoulder and added, casual as ever, “It’s not minor, and I know everything.”

Lestrade forced out a short chuckle at that, as if he could laugh the truth out of Mycroft’s statement. It didn’t exactly work, but it did make him feel a little better about it. The two walked the last couple of lengths of corridors in silence. It struck Lestrade as strange how familiar Mycroft was with the layout of the Met, but decided it was better for his own mental wellbeing not to worry about it. There wasn’t much he could do about it, anyway.

“Well, here we are,” Mycroft said cheerfully and stopped at a nondescript metal door. He waited until Lestrade had swiped his ID at the security panel and unlocked the door, until pulling it open and gesturing for Lestrade to get in first. Lestrade didn’t move. Behind the door would be a short hallway, at the end of which there were two other doors; one of them led to an interview room and the other one to an observation room. Lestrade wanted to be sure Mycroft had remembered the security cameras.

“I suppose the security footage from the two cameras will go the same way as my report of the case?” Lestrade asked pointedly.

“Unfortunately those particular cameras broke down a few hours ago,” Mycroft said without a trace of regret, ushering Lestrade inside. “You might like to fix them come tomorrow.”

“And you might like to make a donation to our security department. Those things are not cheap.” Mycroft nodded to Lestrade in acknowledgement and opened the door to the observation room, polite smile already in place for the person inside.

“Mrs Weasley, so sorry to keep you waiting. Gregory, I’d like to introduce you to Mrs Hermione Weasley, who is our liaison for the Magical Law Enforcement. Mrs Weasley, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, he will be our police representative for this case. And most likely any other case that you send my way in the future.”

If Mrs Weasley was in any way affected by this bit of news, she didn’t show it. Her smile was warm and for a brief moment Lestrade entertained the thought of her being a witch. A ridiculous thought if there ever was one.

Mrs Weasley seemed to be barely in her thirties but she looked professional in her dark pant suit and shoes. Her hair was thick and brown and misbehaving a little, soft curls coming undone from where it was held up with a clasp. All in all, an attractive young lady -not that Lestrade was looking, but nevertheless.

“Hi,” she said and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector.”

“Hello. You as well,” Lestrade offered as he returned the firm shake. He stepped further into the room to look through the one-way mirror and nodded towards the person sitting at a table in the other room. “So what’s the deal with our victim, precisely? Mycroft told me a little about him but I have to confess most of it went over my head. Guess I was a bit distracted by the `magic is real` -part that came before it.” He looked at Mrs Weasley to gauge her reaction and then continued, “To be honest I’m still very sceptical about that part.”

“I have to say if this is your first encounter with magic, you’re taking it very well,” said Mrs Weasley, unimpressed by Lestrade’s blatant staring.

“So you’re a witch, then?” Lestrade felt a bit rude saying it out loud but it was something he needed to address first. And besides, it wasn’t every day that you could ask that of a woman and not get slapped or laughed at.

Mrs Weasley considered her answer and looked over at Mycroft but she didn’t laugh or get violent, which Lestrade counted as a win. Whatever nonverbal response she got from Mycroft must have been enough, as she soon confirmed what Mycroft had already told him earlier.

“Yes. I’m a witch,” she said. “I’m here to remove a love spell from our victim and then wipe his memory of the last few days. I’m sure Mr Holmes told you at least that much?” she said and directed the question at Mycroft, who answered in Lestrade’s stead.

“I told him that there has been a crime in which a spell has been used to insert memories into the people’s minds, making the victims believe they’d been in a relationship with the suspect for years when in fact they had only met four days ago. Our victim hasn’t known the suspect prior to the incident, but is now very much in love with her. However, as you said, the suspect’s spellwork has been uncharacteristically sloppy this time around and has left the victim with memories of alternative timelines for the last two years. The contradicting memories are the reason he came to the police early this morning, convinced he’s been given some sort of a microchip. And then you came knocking on my door.” Mycroft retold the story in a dispassionate tone, his eyes locked on the figure of a man on the other side of the glass. He then turned his attention to Lestrade. “I also told Gregory here that his part will be to confirm what the victim already suspects, to tell him that the memories are not his own, and that they indeed resulted from a microchip implanted under his skin, as ridiculous as that sounds. He will then explain the man how he needs to undergo an operation to have it removed, and how he will be left with no recollection of the suspect after the procedure is done.”

“But why can’t you just do your thing, remove the spell now and be done with it? Why give him the story of a microchip if you’re going to make him forget about it anyway?” asked Lestrade. “Or, why can’t the spell be left there, let the man keep his memories of someone he loves? What’s the harm there?” It seemed that one way or another, this Mrs Weasley was making this way more complicated than it needed to be.

Mrs Weasley placed a calming hand on Lestrade’s shoulder and offered a placating smile. “I know it’s not easy to see the reason to all this, but it really is much better for him if we manage to do the removal like this. Let me explain. Would you care for some tea, Detective Inspector?” she then asked, out of the blue, guiding Lestrade towards the stacked plastic chairs on the side of the room.

“What?” Lestrade was perplexed but sat down when a chair was offered to him. “I sorry, but the nearest pot of tea is on another floor entirely, how exactly did you plan to get- Ah.” Apparently witches did in fact carry wands.

“How would you like yours?” Mrs Weasley asked as Lestrade eyed the wooden stick with trepidation.

“You can’t really pour tea out of that one, can you?” Mrs Weasley laughed at that, so apparently the words were as stupid outside his head as they had been inside it.

“Don’t be silly, of course not. I’ll take mine with milk and sugar, is that fine with you too?”

“Sure.”

Mrs Weasley swirled the wand about in a pattern and uttered words that sounded something like Latin but besides that, there weren’t any special effects. Somehow she still managed to conjure two steaming cups of tea, in proper ceramic mugs, no less. Lestrade was impressed.

“Black with lemon for you, Mr Holmes?” she asked.

“Your memory serves you well, Mrs Weasley.” Another similar swish and aim of her wand, another quick incantation, and Mycroft was left to pluck a delicate-looking porcelain cup and saucer from mid-air. The wonderful scent of Earl Grey filled the room.

“I’ve found that a nice cup of tea helps a long way in a difficult situation,” she carried on, as if making things appear out of thin air was a common occurrence. Then Lestrade realised that for her it probably was. He took a careful sip of the tea and found it delightful, much better than what the teabags from their coffee room would have produced. He decided not to question the tea.

“You were saying something about the victim, Mrs Weasley?” he prompted after a round or two of sipping noises.

“Oh, please call me Hermione. For me Mrs Weasley is and will always be the name of my mother-in-law,” she said and now that Lestrade knew to look for it, there was indeed a thin band of gold on her finger. He was a bit taken a back that he hadn’t noticed it before. Usually he was better at taking note of these things. 

“Well then. I hope you won’t take offence if I’d still like you to call me Lestrade,” he said in return. “No-one ever calls me Gregory these days, except for my mother and Mycroft. He is insistent about that, for one reason or another.” Lestrade glanced at Mycroft as he spoke of him, and found him looking at him and Hermione carefully.

“Something the matter, Mycroft?” he asked, but got no reply except for a dismissive swirl of Mycroft’s hand. The man turned to put down his tea in favour of typing something with his Blackberry and left the two of them at peace.

“So, as I was saying about the spells,” Hermione continued, “The reason you should try to push the microchip story is that if the victim of a crime like this believes the new memories are their own they are much more reluctant to let them go. Part of him is still desperately in love with this witch and would cling to those memories with everything he has. If you can distance him from the memories and the general idea of her, undoing the love spell will be that much easier and it will also speed up his recovery. It is very important that you make him concentrate on his actual memories, and not on the ones she gave him.”

Lestrade took a moment to drink his tea and turn the case over in his head.

“So are there other people like him?” he eventually asked. “Will there be more?”

Hermione considered this for a while. “We have the woman responsible in custody and she’ll be prosecuted in due time, but to be honest we have no way of knowing if there are others like her around.” Lestrade was surprised at the seemingly glaring lack of control but Hermione rushed to continue, saying, “What you have to understand is that using magic for this kind of purpose is strictly forbidden. There are laws against using magic _among_ non-magical people, let alone _on_ them. Crimes like hers are very rare.” She hesitated for a moment and for a while Lestrade thought she was going to leave it at that. Then she continued, “But yes. The trace from her wand tells us she has been doing this before. Three previous victims were found when we tracked her magical print, all gone mad after she left them. Two of them had killed themselves. It seems that she didn’t have much control over the intensity of the spell, and she didn’t seem to know how to modify it to make it better.”

Hermione took a sip of her tea before pushing the mug away and magicking it gone, looking at Lestrade as if willing him to understand. “That’s why it is so important that the spell is lifted and not left to fester. The love that these memories create is not natural, it’s poisonous and obsessive. It fills the victim’s life and although it might be nice the first few days or even weeks to be adored with such intensity, it soon becomes too much to bear. Too much for both the victim and the suspect, who up until now enjoyed the attention while it lasted and then moved on to the next man when the previous one got too possessive and needy.

“We must help this man to forget her. It’s not right what she did, and eventually he’ll go mad like the rest if we do nothing.”

“Why don’t you do it then?” Lestrade asked, “You’re much better at explaining this than I have any hope of being, and there’d be no need to involve extra people. It could be just you and Mycroft, no-one else would need to know. God knows he has the experience and the means to keep things like this under wraps.”

“Mycroft’s assistance is indeed invaluable to us, but when we’re dealing with crime victims it’s easier to use an actual police officer. People tend to be more receptive towards those they hold in high regard and although I have authority in the wizarding community I hold no official power over non-magical people. Besides, I know next to nothing of microchips and that’s the truth he needs to believe, not the one with magic.” She patted Lestrade’s arm and took his now empty mug of tea from him, flicked her wand and made it disappear.

“Handy, that,” Lestrade commented.

“Sometimes.” Hermione smiled at Lestrade and together they joined Mycroft at the glass window.

“He’s getting anxious,” said Mycroft without lifting his eyes from the man at the table. The man’s hands were resting on the table top and he was picking at a string from his shirt sleeve. To Lestrade he looked more bored than anything.

“You think? I should probably get going then, tell him a nice little story about a girl with a microchip. What if he asks for proof, though?”

“Then you’ll give him proof,” said Mycroft, “Although I’m sure it won’t come to that. He’ll be too relieved that we believe him to question the existence of a chip he made up.”

“Right,” Lestrade said and turned to Hermione. “Will he remember any of this? Being here, our conversation?”

“Yes, he will. Undoing the spell is quite a long and delicate process, and it allows me to pick and choose which memories to take from him. I’ll remove the false memories from the past years, but I’m not expecting the separation to be a very difficult process. As I said before, the original spellwork was pretty haphazard, making the invented memories stand out. Obviously I’ll have to completely remove the days he spent with her, which there were luckily only a few. He hasn’t seen her today because we caught her in the morning, so he’ll remember today. He’ll remember coming here because of a microchip, he’ll remember meeting with you, and that the chip was taken out. Any remaining disorientation can be blamed on the drugs he was supposedly given during the operation,” Hermione said, going through the plan patiently.

“Got it. Anything else I should know about?”

“You need to get him to sign this consent form, it’s very important.” Hermione fished out several papers from the depths of her handbag, leafing through them and checking all the pages were safely there.

Lestrade felt his eyebrows creep up towards his hairline. “Exactly how much good is his consent going be if he’s kept under false impressions of what exactly he’s consenting to?”

“The wording of the document is actually very particular,” Hermione was quick to explain, “And it never refers to the procedure as anything more specific than a `memory removal`, which is exactly what we’re about to do. I know it’s a bit iffy, but it’s a compromise. A willingly signed consent form is the only way I can legally cast any spells on him.”

“And how about the ones who don’t bother with consent forms?” Lestrade asked, feeling the more jaded side of him rise to the surface. Hermione handed him the form and a pen.

“That’s where people like me come in. We catch criminals, much like you do. But as I said, these things don’t happen all that often.”

“Okay. Fine. But if he starts actually reading it he’ll know something’s up.”

“It’ll be fine, Gregory,” Mycroft said. “The more text there is the less likely people are to read what they sign. Especially if you understate its importance while telling them to sign it or verbally summarise the contents for them.” He was once again typing away at his Blackberry, giving Lestrade only a fleeting glance as he addressed him.

“Also you should let him leave the door first after you get him to sign. It’ll be easier to catch him if you’re standing behind him,” Hermione added.

“So you’re going to…” Lestrade said, the end tapering out to a vague hand gesture.

“He needs to be unconscious for the process, yes,” Hermione confirmed.

“Right.”

“Treat him to some tea, yes? The poor man looks like he could use a cuppa,” Hermione suggested, creating two pale blue cups with big ears for Lestrade to take hold of. The steaming cups started gently floating through the air towards Lestrade.

“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll see you both in a bit.” Lestrade took the cups carefully in one hand and used the other to palm the door open. After a sharp knock on the other door he stepped into the interview room. The door fell shut and Mycroft and Hermione were left to watch the interview through the one-sided mirror.

\----

“Did you have any questions, then?” Lestrade asked after a good half an hour had passed and he felt he’d done everything in his power to make the man comfortable with the situation.

“No, just um- No. Mostly I’m just weirded out, right? I mean, this girl knew how to make all these hi-tech microchips, create memories from nothing. Not that they were perfect, I mean. They don’t have the details, you know? It’s like they’re unfinished or something. But still, memories! She could do that, and what did she use it for? To create herself a boyfriend. Of me. That’s just mental.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well I’m nothing special. If she had all that knowledge, she could’ve picked anyone. Why me, then?”

“Maybe she saw something in you that she felt drawn to. Or maybe you were just convenient, at the right place at the right time. We’ll never know.”

“And then there’s the…”

“Yes?”

“Well. She’s a girl, right?”

“Right-”

“I don’t know. You don’t really expect it to be a girl when the crime is about technical stuff, yeah?”

“Well. There’s always exceptions to-”

“I mean, you’ve got to respect that.”

“..what?”

“No, don’t get me wrong, of course I don’t approve of what she did, but… That was pretty resourceful. Brilliant, even.”

“What?”

“I mean, she’s got to be really smart to pull off programming like that, right? Microchips, man!”

“Well, yeah, but she’s also clinically insane.”

“..yeah. You’re probably right, Detective Inspector.”

“Jesus.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“No, it’s okay, you’re most likely still under the influence of that chip. How about we schedule that operation, we could drive you to the hospital today if you’re up to it.”

“And I wouldn’t remember her anymore? Any of her?”

“No, she’d be all gone. You know you don’t really know her, right? These memories are an image she created of herself, not what she’s really like. You didn’t meet two years ago, you met four days ago. She’s just a twisted stranger you had the misfortune to meet.”

“Yeah. I know. It’s just that there’s so much stuff in my head, it’s pretty hard to concentrate on only the real memories, the other ones kinda bleed through, you know?”

“That’s perfectly understandable. But keep holding onto those real ones, and we’ll fix you right up. You’ll have your old life back in no time.”

“She seemed really nice, though. And I was only confused about it in the beginning when I didn’t know what was happening. Now that I know, it’s like I’d almost like to meet her.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Now, I have a basic consent form here that says you’ll agree to the memory-removal. You’re going to sign it, here and here. Then I’ll take you to the hospital, where they’ll get rid of the chip. Okay, kid?”

“Fine. Right. You’re right, sir. I mean, she probably wouldn’t like the real me either, right? We only knew each other for three real days, and most of that time I just fawned over her like a lovesick puppy.”

“Listen, mate. That girl is dangerous. You’re lucky she was caught before it got any further than this. What she wanted was a.. a lovesick puppy, as you said, not a partner. Remember that.”

“Like I said, fine. There, all signed. When did you say the operation was scheduled?”

“I didn’t. But I did say I could drive you to the hospital, if you’d like, see if they can fit you in for the afternoon.”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go then.”

“After you, kid.”

\----

As she had promised, Hermione was waiting for them when Lestrade opened the door, taking the young man down with a single spell. He never saw it coming and Lestrade was there to catch him as he fell. Lestrade dragged him back into the interview room and sat him back on his chair, moving the unconscious body with practiced ease.

Hermione walked into the room after him, leaving Mycroft waiting by the door. Lestrade handed her the signed form, which she folded twice and pocketed inside her jacket.

“Thanks, Lestrade. You did well. I’ll handle him from here, but this will take some time. I have Mr Holmes’s mobile number and I’ll give him a call after it’s done, okay? You take him out for coffee or something,” she said with a hint of a smile curving her lips at the last suggestion.

“I think it’s him that owes me one for this, actually,” Lestrade said and looked over to where Mycroft was standing, for once without his phone but still managing to look preoccupied. Hermione glanced that way too, then turned her back on Mycroft and softened her voice-

“If you’re waiting for him to ask you, you’re going to be waiting for a long time, Lestrade.”

And now he was getting dating advice from a witch. It was enough of an anomaly to strike Lestrade speechless for a good number of seconds before he recovered enough to form words.

“I-,” Lestrade stumbled, then lowered his voice to match Hermione’s, “I’m not.. _waiting_. For anything. We’re friends, of a sort.” Apparently his ability to form sentences wasn’t quite up to speed yet. “I’m not waiting for anything,” he repeated himself.

“No? Alright then.”

“What? Do you know something?”

“Of course not. I barely know him, he hardly talks to me beyond polite discussion.”

“But there’s something.”

“Wouldn’t you want to find out if there could be something?”

“No!” was Lestrade’s first reaction, “Well-“ was his second and eventually he ended up just hopelessly repeating himself. “We’re friends. Of a sort.”

“Ask him. Then you’ll know.”

“Look. I’m not asking him out. Just going for a coffee. Because we both have time to kill.”

“And if you repeat it enough maybe it’ll come true?” Hermione whispered and winked at him.

“I could have you arrested,” he offered, only half serious about it.

“I could turn you into a bunny.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.” Lestrade was quickly becoming aware that you just couldn’t win an argument against someone who could give you real bunny ears to go with the fluffy little tail you just sprouted. He huffed out a surprised laugh.

“Go on, then, I’m busy here,” She then said on her normal voice. Lestrade bit his lip and turned to see Mycroft starting to show signs of mild annoyance. “And take your time with it, as I said I’ll need a while with this,” she reminded as Lestrade made his way across the room to the door.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade greeted the man.

“Gregory,” said Mycroft in return. “Coffee, then?”

“Coffee’s good.”

“I’ll call you, Mr Holmes, when I’m done here. I’ll see you later, Lestrade,” Hermione said before giving them a wave and closing and locking the door with a swish of her wand. Lestrade took the hint and started walking along the hallway, trusting Mycroft to follow him this time round.

“So she’s the liaison. Have you worked with her a lot, then?” he asked Mycroft after he’d swiped them through the door to the hallway.

“I’ve known her for a few years now. And no, not many times. It’s like she told you earlier, magical people tend to keep mostly to themselves, dealing with their problems as they see fit and leaving us to deal with ours.”

“How did you become their go-to person, then?” Lestrade wondered aloud, realising only after the words were out that he and Mycroft didn’t exactly have a history of sharing stories of any personal value. Before he could do anything about it, though, Mycroft surprised him by actually giving him an answer.

“I was approached by the Ministry to co-operate with a case that involved some high-ranking members of the Government.” Mycroft explained as they made their way up the stairs. “After the case was finished they offered to either clean my memory or to keep my contact information should there be other similar cases. Or any cases that involved getting around and through non-magical authorities, really.”

“Such as me.”

“Such as you. But I suspect you won’t be Obliviated afterwards,” Mycroft added in that particular tone of light conversations he seemed to use specifically for the more shocking bits of information. Lestrade stopped in his tracks and touched Mycroft’s arm to stop him too.

“Obliviated? That sounds horrible, what is it?” Lestrade was very glad to hear it probably wouldn’t be happening to him, but he still wanted to know.

“That’s the spell for cleaning the memory, making you forget this ever happened. Much like Mrs Weasley is doing to our victim of a love spell downstairs. But like she said earlier, you have to sign a form before she can to do that.” Lestrade boggled at the news. He had a bad feeling about this.

“But that can be practically any piece of paper! People sign shit without pausing to read them all the time! _I_ sign shit without pausing to- Jesus fuck.” Mycroft was looking at Lestrade as if waiting for something. For the other shoe to- “Wait. Is that what’s happened to every other official person that’s ever come into contact with magic? No, don’t answer that. Jesus.”

Mycroft seemed to have taken a more practical approach on the matter. “It’s not like there’s any damage,” he said, “Mrs Weasley is very careful with her magic, and she is particularly good with memory spells. The people involved usually wake up at their desks, feeling somewhat confused but mainly just guilty because they’ve fallen asleep on the job. No harm done.”

“No harm done? Think of all the different ways something could go wrong! If some lunatic started making people do things, and then altering their memory so there’d be no evidence of-” The bad feeling developed into a truly dreadful feeling. Mycroft looked like he was worried Lestrade was going to cause a scene.

“I don’t want to know, okay.”

“I can tell you about it, if you want to know sometime later,” he offered.

“Okay. Just- Not here. Christ, I can only imagine-”

“No, you’re right. This is not the place for it,” Mycroft agreed, glancing around them but luckily no-one seemed to pay them any attention. “Come on, let’s go and get that coffee you wanted. I know a place.”

“Of course you do,” Lestrade muttered with a thin smile. There must have been something in his tone because it made Mycroft look like Lestrade had insulted him all of a sudden. Lestrade raised his hands in a placating gesture. “No, I think it’s good. Really. All I have time for is the dreck they make in the break room and that stuff will literally burn a hole through your stomach after a few cups. The place you have in mind is bound to be better than that, so I’m all for it.”

Mycroft gave him a long level look, which Lestrade readily returned. He had no idea Mycroft could be this touchy but then again, he didn’t really know the man, did he? As far as he knew it might have been just the low blood sugar making him irritable.

Lestrade gestured Mycroft towards the front doors and out of the building, slowing his pace once they were out in the open air and finally drawing to a stop as he realised he had absolutely no idea where he was going.

“So. Where is this coffee shop you are so fond of?” Lestrade asked.

“It’s not that far from here, actually,” Mycroft said, looking undecided for some reason. “I can have my car here in two minutes,” he then said.

“Surely we can walk there,” Lestrade offered. “With all this traffic we might walk there faster than if we got a car. Besides, the weather’s nice. We should enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft without any conviction. He was a person with probably several PAs who told him where to go at any point of day and several drivers to take him there, maybe that was the reason behind this uncharacteristic lack of confidence. Then another thought crossed Lestrade’s mind, and of course-

“Of course if you don’t know the way-”

The idea was dismissed before Lestrade could properly finish the sentence. Mycroft flipped his hand as if swatting at an insect, like the physical gesture could break the sentence and make the words scatter into the wind. “Of course I know the way,” he simply said.

“Well. Lead the way, then,” Lestrade said and, for some unfathomable reason, offered his arm to Mycroft.

There was a heavy pause when neither of them moved. Lestrade held his breath and counted the seconds it took for Mycroft to come up with a response, got to no further than five before Mycroft seemed to adjust to the new situation and positioned his hand at the crook of Lestrade’s elbow. There was a small push and Lestrade felt himself being guided forward. They fell in step with each other with relative ease and continued to walk along the street, presumably in the direction of the café. Lestrade was frankly surprised Mycroft was going along with this rather than striding away in a tiff and retreating into the safety of his car that was bound to be close by.

After a block or so he started feeling a bit embarrassed walking like this – seeing as this was the 21st century, and them being two grown men. It just wasn’t done. But even with all the embarrassment it would be a cool day in hell before Lestrade let an ounce of his insecurity show. This might not have been his original plan but he sure as hell wasn’t complaining. He was taking the new plan and running with it.

\----

The café was a surprisingly small place, consisting of only a few square tables, a small bookcase on one wall and the counter on another. The walls were of a light beige colour and covered with framed pictures of different sizes, the chairs matched the polished wood of the tables and the staff were efficient but endlessly polite. The coffee was, as Lestrade had expected, heavenly.

“That was probably the best coffee I’ve ever had,” Lestrade said as he placed his cup back onto the table, “and I’ve had plenty. How come there’s no queue outside, how is it possible people come here and not immediately fall in love with the place?”

“Well, if you look across the road and a few hundred yards to the left of us, you can see the queue you were missing,” Mycroft answered. Lestrade turned to look and saw a familiar green and white logo adorning the windows of another café, several times larger in size than the one they were sitting in. And there was a queue, although it didn’t quite stretch out the door.

“Ach, should have known there’d be one of those close by,” Lestrade said, exasperated. “Cannot understand the appeal, not with this place a stone throw away.”

“They have the advantage in choice of drinks, although the flavour does pale in comparison to the coffee they serve here,” agreed Mycroft. “You can get a refill, if you want. I think we still have time before Mrs Weasley is finished with her work.”

“You know what? I think I just might,” Lestrade said and made his way to the counter. He came back with the steaming cup in his hand and simply breathed in the smell of freshly brewed coffee for a while. Mycroft seemed amused by his appreciation but said nothing to deter him from the obvious pleasure. They were both silent for a while but then Mycroft continued on their earlier topic.

“It’s a shame, though. This place not getting the traffic it deserves,” he mused, looking out the window and at the steady flow of people walking past the café.

“Sure. But what’s there to do, except spread the word and let people know about the delicious coffee. I know I’m going to tell everyone at the office about this little place.”

“Something could happen to the competition to lessen their dominance over the coffee business.”

Lestrade stared at Mycroft over the rim of his cup, hearing the words but having a little trouble comprehending them. The man was either dead serious or making a joke, and Lestrade couldn’t for the life of him decide which was more likely. “Mycroft,” he with a warning in his voice. When the man turned to look at him, innocent as ever, Lestrade explained the issue as plainly as he knew how, “I can see you’re very fond of this place, but you cannot start taking down the competition just because they’re stealing their clients. You understand that, right?”

Mycroft favoured him with an honest-to-god grin and said, “Well, I could. Technically. Of course a Detective Inspector would be the last person I should be telling about my plans, so for the record yes, I understand and no, I’m not going to destroy a global coffee chain just to give my own favourite a push forward. That would be a bit of an overkill, wouldn’t it?”

“’Abuse of power’ is the term you’re looking for, Mycroft,” Lestrade said, barely managing to keep a straight face.

“But I could. Technically. There’s nothing you could do to stop me.”

“I could try.”

“You would lose.”

“Would you fight me, though?”

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise and turned to look through the window once again. Lestrade wasn’t sure whether he’d won or lost, or even what had been at stake there. Or if it had all been a joke from the start. He sipped his coffee.

“And there’s also the issue of space.” Mycroft gave him a questioning eyebrow so Lestrade explained further, “All I’m saying is, should there be a huge increase in the number of clients, this place would be full all the time. People waiting to get a seat, making you hurry finishing your drink instead of getting to finish it in peace. There’d be no more book reading or free refills. People wouldn’t have an appetite for those, what with new clients breathing down the backs of their necks to get seated. Of course then this place would have to move into a bigger space somewhere else, but would a big café be as warm and comfortable as this one? Or would it become just another Starbucks?” Mycroft looked mildly horrified at the prospect of relocating the café somewhere else, but seemed genuinely distressed at the suggestion of it losing the exact thing that made it so perfect. Lestrade almost felt sorry for bringing it up, but he had to be absolutely sure Mycroft wouldn’t sabotage the neighbouring café as soon as he turned his back.

“You’re right,” Mycroft said after he’d recovered from the shock Lestrade had inflicted on him. “Maybe this one is best left as a well-kept secret.”

“I’m sure it is,” Lestrade agreed.

Thankfully the conversation turned to more mundane topics after that.

Eventually Hermione did call and they walked back to Scotland Yard. There was no hand-holding this time but neither of the men seemed to mind. Even the London weather was on their side – the skies did break eventually, but only after Lestrade and Mycroft were both safely inside the building.

\----

They made their way downstairs and back to the interview room where they found Hermione already waiting for them. She was sitting on the chair Lestrade had occupied some hours ago, looking tired but satisfied. The victim sat opposite her, slumped as Lestrade had left him, but sleeping rather than unconscious. Her wand was on the table. To Lestrade it still looked nothing more than a wooden stick. He knew better than to mention this to Hermione, though.

“How was coffee?” Hermione asked Lestrade with an innocent-looking smile.

“Good. Best I’ve ever had,” Lestrade answered, refusing to approach the topic on any other level. “Mycroft knows the best places; you should ask him recommendations someday. I’m sure he’d love to share, wouldn’t you, Mycroft?” he continued while turning to address Mycroft.

“Of course I would,” Mycroft said with a polite smile.

“That means no,” Hermione translated for Lestrade with a completely unoffended smile of her own. “He has a habit of doing that, have you noticed yet, Lestrade? The _Of course_ and a strained smile –combo. Famously popular in political circles,” she continued.

“No, I- _Oh_. I never noticed.” That explained some of Mycroft’s earlier annoyance, then. Lestrade made a note to keep the detail in mind for the future.

“You mustn’t have been in the receiving end of it all that often, then.”

“Well, being a Detective Inspector I have been lied to more often than is probably healthy, but not by Mycroft, I have to say. Not much, anyway.”

“Well there you go,” Hermione said, as if she’d just proved something. And who knows, maybe she had.

“I’m sure you’re very tired, Mrs Weasley,” Mycroft interrupted their conversation and proceeded to help Hermione out of her chair and usher her out the door as he continued, “It’s been a long day, you’d probably like to get home already.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows but didn’t object to either of Mycroft’s statements. “It would be best if he woke up in a hospital, if you could arrange that?” she asked Mycroft instead, nodding towards the sleeping body of their victim.

“Certainly. Consider it done,” Mycroft answered, flipping his Blackberry out and tapping out something, all professional efficiency again.

Lestrade moved to follow them through the door. Hermione caught his worried glance at their victim and assured him that the man would be out at least a couple more hours still, possibly until morning. That it would be completely safe to leave him there until Mycroft’s people collected him. Lestrade locked the door and the three of them walked away.

\----

Lestrade and Mycroft said their goodbyes to Hermione in the lobby and watched her step outside into the rain.

“She doesn’t seem to get wet at all, even in that downpour,” Lestrade pointed out to Mycroft, who didn’t seem to consider the comment worth answering.

This was before Lestrade got impatient and gently nudged Mycroft in the ribs, which had the effect of Mycroft looking down on him as if he were a child and said, in a perfectly long suffering tone of a parent- “Yes, Gregory, it’s magical.”

Lestrade couldn’t help it, the laughter bubbled out of him in small, uncontrollable bursts of joy. Mycroft’s face did it’s best to stay impassive but lost the fight eventually and together they stood, in the middle of Scotland Yard’s lobby, chuckling away.

Since nothing good ever lasts very long, the moment was disturbed by Mycroft’s mobile demanded his attention.

“I should go back downstairs,” he said. “The people who’ve come to move our young man to St. Bart’s are here.”

Lestrade wiped his face and tried to regain his composure. “Right,” he said, because suddenly words failed him and he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “That was quick.”

“Thank you for doing this for me, Gregory. The paperwork will be at your desk when you get back to your office, waiting for you to sign it.” There was a small pause, barely noticeable, and then Mycroft added, “and thank you for the company as well, the coffee was… good.”

“No, don’t mention it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. And the coffee was great, I’d love to go there again sometime,” Lestrade said once he found his words again. “Really, anytime.”

“I may take you up on that offer,” Mycroft said and flashes him one of his more genuine smiles. He then left to the direction where they had come from, leaving Lestrade standing alone.

Alone for all of three seconds, after which Lestrade remembered that he, too, had actual work to finish before he was free to go home for the day. He knew it was wishful thinking, but maybe he’d even get Sherlock to make an appearance. He went back into his office, took one look at the mountain of paperwork that had piled up in addition to the latest one with Sherlock and John and sighed. Even if he didn’t hear from the younger Holmes today he’d still have his work cut out for him.

\----

Lestrade woke up some time later in his office, slumped over a stack of case files and paperwork. It was already dark outside and through his open doorway he could see that his office appeared to be the only one with the lights still on. He blinked and the world shifted back into focus, then yawned and rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. Something niggled at the back of his head, a thought from earlier, something Mycroft had said. Then he remembered, and for the short impossible infinity between one heartbeat and the next, he couldn’t remember the rest and was immersed in sheer panic, choking on it.

The events of the afternoon played back in his mind on fast forward, finding and zooming in on all the relevant memories. Relief washed over him, drowning his alarm and for a moment he just breathed, willing his heart into a more normal rhythm. Flicking through his memories he was glad to find all the possibly incriminating details still present and accounted for.

Lestrade eyed the tall stack of unfinished paperwork, estimating the rough amount of coffee he needed to make to get through them without falling asleep again. He came up with a number and added a couple of cups to be on the safe side. Damned if he was ever going to take a nap again if waking up was going to be like this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really have any deep-seated passions for Starbucks one way or another. Not really a coffee person either. Just thought it'd be good to get that out of the way first.
> 
> Secondly, this fic is cross-posted to ff.net, so if you'd rather read it there, you can.


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